every tree branch sings what wind teaches

these limbs become the world’s tongue

the morning strums our body’s strings

the wind learns what love teaches

"In The Wind" by Michal Kochanek @ DeviantArt.com

Ocean’s Edge - Mark Schultz

I

The city spread below me jeweled by the night its soft stars lit-a-million among the sleeping and awake coursed on broadening avenues like a watershed of light that pulsed and pooled and called all divers in

I descended from the western hills leaning as I traveled toward that ocean’s edge then waded into the huddled multitude dry from my mountain-far retreat

What would I find? Not wind - not silence of the mind but a certain spinning revelry a dance of hopes and veiled unveiled desire

Entre eu e eu há fronteiras que apenas o tempo cruza

e tu lado de lá esperando alguém.

Te vejo banhada na nudez da manhã escondida por fumaça por desejo revelada teu botão querendo desabrochar sem terra.

Entre tu e tu a fronteira que se cruza por abraçar a dor:

assim banhado pelo sal das lágrimas o raís abre vão na terra fecunda penetra o escuro úmido para acabar com sede.

My mother believes in me so the odds bow more to my favor. She guards a heart she carries through life like a basket filling with flowers she doesn’t know are hers.

Love also believes in me. She holds the opening key to my houses and turns in at my door and sits on my bed and waits for my fear to grow tired. If I touched her like an heirloom glass… or as I lift bread from the oven… or as rain covers the ocean… but I have cursed my hands with the ten doubts of the Christians and often they are coarse as sand or still as basalt. Though when she sees me, she smiles.

a snowflake fell through light as light as breath depends on this our sky our night	light as the sound as a breath is caught suspended by a thread from the vault of our sky	the world waited as I waited as I watched watched as the light crystal descended from the end of our night	and the world shook! as the flake as slight as thought alit lit up vanished into heat in the light in the palm of my hand

A Snowflake - Mark Schultz

I would have told the secrets of my life long ago but there were none: life is simple like a house of four walls and only one door through which you enter and leave. That house braced against erosion that house weighing its foundation a long way from the sea; the house that wishes to be dismantled wishes to burn down in the night or find blood on the floor; wishes a man would enter and sleep and another man, quite different, wake and depart.

There are advantages to learning to clutch with your left hand, and shift with your left foot. You might have the opportunity of riding down a gravel scree near the sacred beach in central Java, girlfriend on the back, wondering if at the bottom it would be a gradual recovery, or an abrupt conclusion; or you might be able to escape the teeming lost/party scene in Goa, to dodge cattle and wild pigs and dogs, to wiggle your head greeting to the locals, and to look out over bicentennial portuguese ruins at the Indian ocean… ah, where you might go, if you could ride a motorcycle…

The shell boy hides his eyes in shallow sleep: if she falls into her sadness like the wakened who wanders a secret night he hopes to follow

gather medicine for anguish as he travels so together they might soften what has been: he should tear his hands collecting blades of corn

or find the root of a plant he’s never seen or steal the tune a meadowlark has sung and could these wash the silence from her rooms?